


Defluo

by phenomenology



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Spark Stiles Stilinski, also post season 3B, at some point it feels like a fairytale??, this has been in the works forever please forgive me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 06:25:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8962546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phenomenology/pseuds/phenomenology
Summary: [Post Season 3B] The Nogitsune is gone, but his poisonous touch still lingers and corrupts.





	

**Author's Note:**

> In case you all can't tell, I'm just banging out the pieces I find in my folder that are half finished so here is one that's so old I don't even wanna talk about it. But anyway I hope you all enjoy!!

It began with a sneeze. 

Derek and the rest of the pack had convened in the old loft that day, just to be in one place and try to adjust together. But for Derek, the memories and echoes of the past seemed to ring in his ears. He could almost hear Cora’s labored breathing from the corner of the room where she had lain dying; he found his fingers twitching with the ghostly sensation of tearing into Boyd as the water flooding the floor sloshed around him. It was taking all of the former alpha’s concentration to stay in the present and stem the flowing onslaught of the previous happenings. But the moment Stiles filed in, a few minutes later than the rest, the repercussions of the memories seemed to fade away.

Something was off, and not just because Stiles, like everyone else, was still recuperating from the whole Nogistune ordeal only four days prior. Derek could sense _something_ inside of Stiles, something that he was trying to repress with fierce determination. But Derek had caught it, the scent of whatever it was making his nose itch, drawing the sneeze out of him.

Stiles looked over at Derek and met his eyes, holding the werewolf in his intense stare for a few moments before turning away. Stiles’ eyes were normal, much to Derek’s relief. But he used the term normal lightly. While the boy’s eyes no longer held that mischievous and threatening sparkle that marked the trickster spirit’s presence, Stiles’ eyes weren’t lit with the same youthful and eager glimmer that just screamed to anyone who saw it that the boy before you was the one and only Stiles. His unquestionable knowledge, his quick wit and eagerness for life were what fueled the spark inside him. And Derek had noticed the absence.

While Stiles reassured everyone around him that he was fine and he just needed some time to recover from the immense lack of sleep caused by the Nogistune, Derek sensed otherwise. Derek was honestly surprised when Scott seemed to believe his best friend’s guarantee, having thought that Scott of all people would notice the shift inside of Stiles.

It was when everyone began to leave that Derek reached out and took hold of Stiles’ upper arm, holding fast and staying the shorter boy. Derek had to ask, he had to know. The sensation was killing his nose and at such close proximity, Derek felt as though his nostrils were burning.

“Stiles,” Derek began softly once they were alone in the loft. The sun was setting outside the murky and tinted windows, casting odd shadows along the floors and walls while filling the room with an orange glow.

“What’s wrong with you?” Derek continued, the question posed in a soft voice but coming out with a harsher note than originally intended. Derek couldn’t help it. The worry was gnawing away at his insides and the searing pain in his nose demanded an explanation. Stiles tugged at his arm, trying to free himself, to get Derek to loosen his grip even, but found the effort to be meaningless. Raising his eyes wearily, Stiles leveled his irises with Derek’s before releasing a tense sigh from tight lips.

“There’s nothing wrong, Derek. It’s like I told everyone earlier, I’m fine.” And with that he gave a harsh tug that caught Derek off guard and Stiles’ arm slid free of the werewolf’s grasp. Stiles hardly lingered for a heartbeat before he was rushing out of the loft, not even bothering to turn back to close the door as he turned and disappeared down the hall.

Stiles’ automatic response and monotonous insistence just didn’t bode well with Derek. Sure he wanted to believe the boy, he wanted to so badly believe that this was all over and all that was left was to bury the past with the fallen. But deep down, Derek knew that something was wrong and that this was far from over. 

* * *

The next time Derek sees Stiles is when Derek is out jogging and passes Stiles’ house on his route. Normally Derek never really paid much attention to the houses around him as he ran because they didn’t really catch his interest. However, this time around, the hunched and burdened looking boy that was perched on the porch steps did catch Derek’s attention. The sight was accompanied by the sharp, acrid smell that hit his nostrils again, the same as the week before in the old loft.

Slowing his pace to a walk, Derek found himself moving up the sidewalk towards Stiles, who was unaware of Derek’s presence until the werewolf was practically standing on top of him. Without a word, Stiles shifted to the right, making room for Derek to plunk down next to the teen. They sat together in silence, each staring at nothing while they just sat. It was Stiles who eventually broke the silence, his voice hoarse and raspy, worse than it had been last week.

“I’m okay, you know that right? You’re really the only person left who doesn’t believe me,” Stiles says quietly in that rough, scratched voice.

Derek takes a moment before moving his gaze to level with Stiles and the disbelief is clear in the beta’s eyes. Derek noticed that Stiles didn’t even seem to have the energy to become mad at his refusal to believe his claims. Instead, the teen simply sighs and slouches even further, subconsciously leaning onto Derek’s shoulder as he does.

“Why won’t you believe me, Derek? I thought you wanted this to be over. Why can’t you just let it go?” Stiles asked in a pained whisper, the hurt and the strain tugging at the back of his throat.

Looking down at the pale, bedraggled boy leaning into his arm, Derek shook his head softly and said, “Because of your scent. There’s something there that just smells like…something worse than pain and sadness and anxiety all mixed together and any time I pass you, it just burns my nose. I know there’s something wrong Stiles. So why won’t you just tell me?”

Derek surprised them both with the pleading note that pulled at his voice, Stiles pulling back in shock and the sudden absence of his warmth against Derek’s side stung like a cool breeze on warm cheeks.

“My scent…gave me away?” Stiles rasped, his large brown eyes confused as his brows drew together.

Derek nodded, looking away as he answered. “Whatever it is you’re trying to hide, trying to push away, it smells terrible and you aren’t doing a very good job of getting rid of it.”

Stiles looked down at his hands and the pair lapsed into silence again, only more strained and tense than the first time. After a few solid minutes of silence, Derek pushed himself to his feet and strode back down the walk without a word before he continued jogging down his normal path. As he drew further and further away, the stinging smell that hung around Stiles grew fainter and fainter, but for some reason, Derek’s nose still felt like it was burning. 

* * *

It was about two days later when Derek saw Stiles again.

Derek had moved back into the loft, finding it easier to deal with all the memories that sometimes kept him from sleeping. It wasn’t as bad as that first night back after the Nogistune attack, but he still wasn’t perfect.

It was raining that night, the drops pattering steadily against the window of the loft. Derek had just woken up from one such disturbance and was rubbing his hands over his face as he tried to steady himself when the knock sounded at the door. With a grunt of annoyance, Derek climbed out of bed and went to open the loft door.

Derek was surprised to find Stiles standing before him, his hair dripping wet and clothes soaked through to the point of being plastered to his thin frame. The droplets of water fell with soft _plips_ to the floor and formed a puddle at the trembling boy’s feet. It took Derek a few second to overcome the initial shock of Stiles actually being there before grabbing the teen’s elbow and dragging him inside the loft.

Derek gently pushed Stiles down into a nearby chair before hurrying upstairs and towards the bed to grab the shirt he had discarded earlier that night – figuring it would be warmer than one he pulled out of the drawer – some shorts, and a towel. Derek went back downstairs to Stiles, tossing the shirt and shorts down next to him, and began to gently dry Stiles’ hair. Derek’s movements were rhythmic and focused, his eyes never straying from the dark, bagged gaze of the boy in front of him.

Once Derek was satisfied with how dry Stiles’ hair was, he exchanged the towel for the clothes and handed them to Stiles with a soft, “You should change into drier clothes before you get sick.”

For a moment it seemed as if Stiles wasn’t going to move and Derek sighed shortly. But then Stiles heaved himself out of the chair and took the clothes from Derek’s outstretched hands before trudging over towards the other side of the room to change in privacy. Derek turned his back and busied himself with wiping up the water from the seat.

Stiles tossed the wet clothes down onto the floor near the chair he had been in a few moments later. Looking up, Derek found Stiles standing next to him at the couch, the shirt he was borrowing brushing the middle of his thighs and hanging loosely around his shoulders. Seeing that, it really drove home how much thinner Stiles had gotten. While he knew that part of Stiles’ change was due to the Nogistune possession, Stiles hadn’t been that big to begin with. The boy sank down onto the couch, his eyes heavy and the bags outlining his lower lids purple in color. Derek felt a tug in his chest and realized he was worried and scared about Stiles’ condition. Lowering himself onto the cushion next to Stiles, Derek glanced sideways at the teen and found Stiles trying to control a tremor that was continually running through his hands. Hesitantly, Derek reached over and took hold of Stiles’ hands, squeezing them tightly.

Feeling a flare in his fingers, Derek looked down at his hands a pulled back in shock when he noticed the thick black veins running up his arms. Derek looked up at Stiles with wide, shocked eyes.

“You’re in so much pain…” Derek whispered in a strained voice. Stiles looked up at Derek, his brown eyes weary and dull as the tremors continued to ripple through the boy. A wry smirk found its way onto Stiles’ face and it made Derek cringe. The smirk was humorless and filled with pain and bitterness.

“Yeah…I know,” Stiles rasped, the state of his voice shocking Derek.

Reaching back over, prepared this time, Derek slipped his hands around Stiles’ and intertwined their fingers, allowing the hurt to flow from Stiles to himself, his grip tightening around Stiles’ slightly as the discomfort increased. Derek watched Stiles’ face, seeing the drawn and pained expression loosen and a darkness that had shrouded his features seemed to lift. Closing his eyes, Derek breathed through the flow of pain that he was taking on. There was a soft tug against his hands – Stiles trying to pull away – but Derek held on stubbornly.

“Derek,” Stiles whispered roughly. “Stop. Don’t do this.”

Derek’s eyes found Stiles’ and he shook his head. “You’re in pain, pain that you don’t deserve. You’ve suffered enough and I refuse to let you suffer anymore than you need to.”

The two sat, staring at each other in suspended silence until Stiles gently forced his hands free of Derek, wincing at the sudden halt to his agony being relieved. Derek watched as the darkness shrouded over the teen’s features once again. Looking up at Derek, Stiles let out a huff.

“Since when did you start caring about me so much, sourwolf?”

_That’s a good question,_ Derek thought to himself. He wondered when he had started to worry about Stiles, when he had started checking up on him, feeling a tug in his chest whenever he knew something was wrong with Stiles. When had he started feeling so comfortable at such a close proximity with Stiles? Derek gave a small shake of his head and smirked at Stiles, jerking his head backwards towards the steps leading upstairs.

“You should get some sleep, you look like crap,” Derek said.

Stiles looked wistfully at the stairs that would lead upstairs to a bed, as if he wanted nothing more than to crawl beneath the sheets and pass out for a few days. But instead the boy weakly shook his head and sighed heavily, a long pull released from tight lips.

“I can’t,” he croaked softly. “Nightmares.”

Derek’s eyes softened, understanding Stiles’ situation. Reaching out, Derek’s fingers drifted along Stiles’ cheek, causing the teens eyes to flutter shut as he let out a soft sigh, leaning ever so slightly into Derek’s hand. Derek didn’t understand why he felt so comfortable with this situation, but something was tugging him towards Stiles, telling him to not pull away, to comfort him.

Derek gently pulled away his hand and started moving to stand up, gesturing at the confused Stiles to follow him.

“C’mere, Stiles. You need to sleep and I’ll make sure you sleep even if it’s the last thing I do. You look like crap and I refuse to let you sit up all night. When was the last time you even slept through the night anyway?”

Stiles shrugged as he stood up and followed Derek, dragging himself up the stairs. Derek watched the boy carefully, making sure he didn’t miss a step.

“I can’t remember to be honest. Not since the whole sacrifice thing I guess.” Stiles looked up at Derek, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. Derek looked down at Stiles, their eyes locking as each one processed Stiles’ answer. He hadn’t slept through the night in months. Once they were upstairs, Derek ushered Stiles to bed and tucked the boy under the sheets before crawling into bed next to him. Derek sat up against the wall, Stiles curled into his side. Stiles lay staring at the dark ceiling for a few moments before Derek reached over slowly and began to run his fingers gently through Stiles’ still damp hair. Derek stared off across the room, acutely aware of Stiles’ gaze moving to rest on him as Derek continued to run his fingers through the teen’s hair.

The soft echo of the rain hitting the roof and the window filled the silence between them as Derek combed his finger through Stiles’ hair, both working to eventually lull Stiles to sleep.

Derek moved his head so he was looking down at Stiles’ sleeping face. He looked so peaceful, his features relaxed and the darkness that seemed to hover around him had vanished, making him look so unburdened, so young. It hurt Derek to know that Stiles would have to wake up at some point and he would gain that darkness over his features again.

Sighing, Derek turned his head back to where it had been before and allowed his eyes to drift shut. He could still feel his fingers moving through Stiles’ scruffy locks; the motion had become automatic and rather numb long ago. Derek had lost track of how long they had been in this position, but the rain was still falling outside the loft and Derek’s legs were starting to go numb but he didn’t want to move, didn’t want to disturb Stiles of the sleep he so desperately needed. So Derek stayed where he was and allowed himself to slip away to sleep. 

* * *

It couldn’t have been more than an hour later when Stiles’ screams jerked Derek back to consciousness. Looking over sharply, Derek found Stiles sitting up, his hands grasping at the bed sheets, hands constantly clenching and unclenching as he did. The screams were short and raspy and filled with terror. It hurt Derek to listen to them. Moving to sit next to Stiles so Derek could grab the younger boy’s shoulders, Derek caught sight of Stiles’ brown eyes, locked on something he couldn’t see and glazed over with pure fear. Something pulled in Derek’s chest and he forced his arms around Stiles, pulling him close and holding him tightly.

“Stiles! Stiles, it’s okay. I’m right here. It’s okay, just a nightmare,” Derek spoke into Stiles’ ear, trying to break through his terror and reach Stiles. It took a few moments, but eventually Derek was able to get Stiles to focus on him, to stop screaming. The pair reclined back on the bed so they were side by side as they stared up at the ceiling together. Derek had Stiles’ hand in his, their fingers intertwined as Derek’s thumb rubbed small circles on the back of Stiles’ hand.

Derek finally broke their silence with a quiet, “What were you dreaming about?”

Derek heard Stiles take in a breath and his grip on Derek’s hand tightened ever so slightly. Concerned, Derek turned his head to look at Stiles as he gave the boy’s hand a light squeeze of reassurance.

“I’m okay,” Stiles whispered, his voice sounding worse than ever before. “I dreamt that the Nogistune wasn’t gone, that he was still possessing me, just letting me believe that it was all over. And then, when I least expect it, he takes control again and just-“

Stiles’ voice broke and he had to stop. His eyes squeezed shut and Stiles inhaled a shuddering breath. Derek sat up and took Stiles’ hand with both of his, eyes lined with worry.

“Sorry,” Stiles croaked. “After he possessed me again,” he continued. “The Nogistune slaughtered everyone and I had to watch my own hands shove a sword through Scott, strangle Lydia, stab Isaac, and…and torture you.”

Stiles’ voice completely gave out and he started to cry, using his free hand to cover his mouth, trying to stifle his sobs. Derek felt as if someone had punched him through his chest, his heart aching at the sight of Stiles crying. Pulling Stiles up to sit with him, Derek enveloped the teen in his arms and let him cry into his shoulder as Derek rubbed Stiles’ back soothingly.

Derek bent his head so his mouth was next to Stiles’ ear. “It’s okay Stiles,” he whispered. “I understand now. You wake up screaming because it’s so hard to figure out the difference between what’s real and what’s not. But this is real; this isn’t a dream. The Nogistune is gone and you are going to be fine.” Derek hugged Stiles tighter before whispering, “I’m real, I’m here, I swear to God I’m real and I’m not going anywhere.”

Stiles’ grip tightened around Derek even more and the two sat there for what felt like forever until they both simultaneously reclined backwards onto the bed, still clinging to each other, and fell asleep in each other’s arms. They slept like that for hours, neither disturbed by nightmares or dreams of any kind. 

* * *

“My spark is gone,” Stiles’ soft rasp drew Derek’s attention to the boy and away from the newspaper he had been flipping through. The words took a moment to sink in, but when they did, Derek felt his eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. Setting the paper aside, Derek reached around their steaming coffee mugs and took Stiles’ hands in his. Stiles’ skin was cold and a little clammy, but Derek held fast anyway.

“What do you mean? How could it be gone?”

“It’s been gone since the Nogitsune was expelled from me. I think…I think whatever we did to get rid of him, it took my spark, too. That’s what you’ve been smelling I would say; the part of me that was somewhat supernatural that died.” 

“H-How do you know your spark is dead? Have you tried testing it?”

Stiles nodded wearily and released a heavy sigh, staring at where his hands were engulfed by Derek’s. “I talked to Deaton the day after we banished the Nogitsune. I wasn’t feeling well at all and I wanted to make sure that it wasn’t any lingering Nogitsune bullshit…and after about two hours of tests and shit, Deaton tells me that my spark is dead. It’s like it left this mini rotting corpse inside me, destroyed my immune system too because now I feel sick all the time…and took away the one thing that made me useful.”

“That is not true,” Derek all but growled, surprising Stiles enough that the boy looked up at the werewolf. “You are still useful to the pack, Stiles. Without your intelligence and quick thinking, we wouldn’t have succeeded as much as we have. Your spark was useful, yes; but now that it’s gone it doesn’t mean the pack has no use for you. Don’t ever say that again.”

“Derek…” Stiles rasped, staring at the werewolf in awe. Feeling himself flush, Derek quickly removed his hands from Stiles’ and cleared his throat. That declaration had been much more passionate sounding than Derek had intended, but the sentiment was all the same.

Stiles was not useless.

“Thank you,” came a soft whisper from across the table. Derek looked up and caught Stiles’ eye. The boy looked a little flushed, whether from fever or embarrassment, Derek couldn’t tell; but Derek’s chest expanded with the gratitude expressed and he nodded, eyes flicking down to the coffee in front of him.

“Of course,” Derek mumbled. He didn’t know how much his words had helped, but Derek hoped that Stiles understood the meaning. The pack would always need their witty, sarcastic human around. 

* * *

As the weeks progressed, Stiles continued to get weaker and weaker. Scott and the rest of the pack noticed not too long after Stiles’ confession to Derek about his spark that something was wrong with their friend. Stiles’ pallor became more translucent each day, his hair grew limp, and the boy’s already sorry weight seemed to drop continuously. Derek would often sit with Stiles before they went to bed, trying to ease some of his pain. But despite the thick black veins webbing Derek's arm, evidence of the pain being erased, Stiles' body would continuously replenish the lost agony like it had never gone away in the first place. Everything about Stiles seemed to scream sickness, and the days he missed of school did not go unnoticed. 

Scott, Lydia, and Kira dropped by Derek’s loft almost every day to visit both him and Stiles, since the latter practically lived with Derek nowadays. Derek had spoken to the sheriff back when Stiles first confessed his sickness and came to an agreement with Stiles’ father that it was better for Stiles to be watched over than left home alone. Sometimes the visits were short, and sometimes the little ragtag pack ended up spending the night in the loft. On those nights, Derek would often overhear whispered conversations between Scott and Stiles about varying topics. Sometimes it was about the homework Scott brought for his friend that Stiles didn’t understand; other times it was about what latest pack escapade Stiles had missed out on. There were even the rare times when those hushed conversations between brothers would be peppered with stifled sobs as Scott mourned Allison and Stiles for his mother. Those were nights when Derek forced his sensitive hearing to direct itself elsewhere.

Scott would often pull Derek aside the mornings after a sleepover and ask privately how Stiles was doing. Derek wanted nothing more than to reassure Scott that Stiles was okay, just tired, just down with a cold, would be home soon; a whole host of false reassurances. But he never could lie to Scott when it came to Stiles. So he would tell Scott the truth, and watch every time as Scott’s brows would crease with worry and his lips would press tightly together.

“How is he doing?”

“Not well,” after a moment’s hesitation. “He threw up yesterday morning after breakfast, even though he only had coffee. I’ve been making sure he keeps something down every day, but he just isn’t getting better.”

A heavy sigh, burdened with concern and weariness. “Is he sleeping?”

“Yes, better than he used to. When this all started, his nightmares wouldn’t let him sleep through the night. Now he sleeps almost half the day and still barely has the energy to put a spoon to his mouth.”

“Have you talked to Deaton? Isn’t there anything we can do?”

“Deaton comes twice a week…so far all he’s said is that losing a spark is permanent. I don’t think there’s anything we can do, Scott.”

“We just got him back…this isn’t fair…”

“It never is.”

* * *

There’s a short clatter, followed by an almost simultaneous thud and shattering sound. Derek is off the bed and flying down the short spiral staircase in a matter of heartbeats. His frantic gaze rakes across the open space of the loft until he eyes land on the prone shape of Stiles, sprawled across the kitchen floor and still in his pajamas. That, and the shattered coffee mug lying in pieces around Stiles explains the cacophony from moments before.

Derek is by Stiles’ side in an instant, carefully gathering up the unconscious boy in his arms and checking the temperature of Stiles’ clammy skin. The boy is burning with a fever, his breaths coming short and labored and sounding rattled.

“Shit,” Derek curses softly, gathering Stiles into his arms, the bundle of limbs feeling way too light and way too frail. Grabbing a blanket from the couch Derek carefully bundles Stiles up in a cocoon of warmth, making sure that there are socks on Stiles’ feet before gathering him back up and rushing out of the loft.

Loading the shivering boy into the back seat of his Camaro, Derek scrambles into the driver’s seat and peels away from the building. He knows he’s speeding but Derek doesn’t care, racing towards the animal clinic a couple miles away. If Deaton can’t do anything, Derek’s next stop is the hospital. He knows that the doctors and nurses there wouldn’t be able to help Stiles, but they might be able to keep him alive.

Miraculously, Derek gets to the clinic without being pulled over and he screeches into a parking spot before turning off the car. Lifting Stiles easily out of the back seat, Derek rushes through the front door and thanks every higher being he can think of that eleven in the morning on a Sunday means an empty animal clinic, because he has no idea how he would have explained this as a normal situation.

“Deaton!” Derek calls frantically. Scott comes rushing out of a back room, closely followed by Deaton and Derek distantly remembers that Scott works here. Their eyes land on Stiles, bundled and unconscious in Derek’s arms and they understand immediately.

“Bring him back,” Deaton instructs brusquely while Scott frets over Stiles. Rushing to the back room, Scott and Derek carefully lay Stiles on the examination table and unbundle him for Deaton. There’s the sound of Scott taking in a sharp breath when he sees how thin Stiles is, but Derek doesn’t bother looking up, his eyes fixed on the shallow rise and fall of Stiles’ chest.

“What happened?” Deaton’s voice cuts across Derek’s consciousness.

“I was upstairs when he collapsed, but I think he was just getting a mug to make coffee and then collapsed. As far as I know, he didn’t do anything differently…I think his body just finally gave out on him.”

“Right,” came Deaton’s curt reply. “I’ll see what I can do. Both of you wait outside. I can’t focus with you hovering over him.” Scott and Derek tried to protest, saying they could be of use, but Deaton wasn’t having any of it, finally shoving them bodily out of back room and shutting the door.

Derek sank into a chair just outside the examination room and dropped his head into his hands. His mind started replaying everything from the last twenty-four hours over in his head, trying to pinpoint a moment when he should have noticed Stiles was going to collapse. He was subconsciously trying to find a way to blame himself for what was happening. If only he had noticed, if only he had done something, if only-

“Derek,” Scott’s voice gently cuts across the self-deprecating mantra. “It was only a matter of time. You did everything you could…you did more than most of us combined.”

“It wasn’t enough…he looks so weak, Scott. What if-”

“Don’t.”

So Derek doesn’t. He just continues to sit there with his head in his hands and Scott’s comforting and worried presence sitting beside him. Derek forcibly keeps his heightened senses to himself, not wanting to make his anxiety worse by hearing every labored breath that leaves Stiles’ lips. It isn’t hard to get lost in his thoughts and forget his senses, the worry blocking everything else out.

It’s nearly half an hour later when Deaton opens the door to the examination room, slips into the hallway, and closes the door softly behind him. Derek was on his feet the moment the handle clicked, standing so fast he felt dizzy for a moment. By the time Deaton turns to look at him and Scott, Derek’s heart is in his throat and he’s not sure if he’s still breathing.

“Well?” Scott voices for them both after a moment of heavy silence.

“He’s fading,” Deaton delivers quietly, shoulders hunched with weary defeat. “Without his spark, Stiles’ system just can’t function normally.”

“But…that doesn’t make any sense!” Scott protests while Derek collapses numbly back into his chair. “Not everyone needs a spark to live so why is Stiles – why can’t he function without it?”

“Some people acquire their sparks at some point in their lives, and when or if they lose it, their bodies can adjust with time to the absence. However, Stiles was born with his…and the loss of it means the loss of a large part of his energy. And since he’s almost eighteen, his spark grew with him and supported a large part of him. Now that it’s gone…”

“He’s dying,” Derek whispers, voice broken and eyes staring into nothingness as everything falls into place. Stiles wasn’t getting sick all those times Derek held the scrawny boy’s shaking shoulders up late into the night as Stiles threw up everything in his stomach; Stiles wasn’t ill when he woke up short of breath with clammy skin and a fever; and it wasn’t a tickle in his throat or a wrong swallow that set off coughing fits that would last for hours…Stiles’ body had been giving out on him, slowly fading and breaking down.

Derek barely registered Scott and Deaton talking quietly to each other a mere two feet from where he sat. He didn’t really care what they were discussing, his entire being aching and begging and pulling him to his feet and dragging him into the examination room to stand beside Stiles’ scrawny body laid prone on the cold, unforgiving metal. The teen looked so frail and small against the dark metal surface – and it was so _wrong_ because Stiles was never big but he always took up space, made noise whether it be laughter or logic, and just had presence that made him feel larger than he was.

And seeing him laying there looking delicate and little twisted something in Derek’s gut.

“Don’t go,” Derek whispered – _begged_ – to Stiles’ unconscious ears. “Please…just hang on. I can’t lose you, you idiot. You beat the Nogitsune…so you can’t give up just because you lost your spark. Didn’t I tell you that you were still useful without it? So y-you can’t j-just leave—”

Voice breaking, Derek covered his mouth with one hand and tried to suppress a sob that wracked through him bodily. He knew that he loved Stiles, had known for months. Everything had finally clicked into place when he first started worrying during the Nogitsune ordeal. It was more than the worry he felt for Scott, Isaac, Boyd, Erica, the pack in general; it was genuine fear of the looming ‘what if’ when he thought about Stiles being out there in the midst of the danger.

Yet in the end, it wasn’t the claws of some beast that would take Stiles away from Derek; but the loss of Stiles’ very being. And Derek had never been so frustrated in all his life – which was saying a lot considering the shit he had been through. But this was no enemy that Derek could punch, could hold down and intimidate into backing off. This was something Stiles had to fight – even though he was currently losing.

“God, Stiles,” Derek choked out, leaning down to press a tearful kiss to the boy’s forehead. He hadn’t even realized he had started crying. “What am I going to do without you?”

Derek stayed hunched over, his forehead pressing against the clammy skin of Stiles’ brow. “I can’t believe you…ducking out on me after breaking one of my favorite mugs. That’s so like you…” Derek’s voice broke over his attempt at banter, desperately hoping that maybe Stiles would wake up just to leave a sarcastic response. Derek would be satisfied with that.

“If you come back…if you stay alive, I promise I won’t be upset. We can just buy a new mug and it can be yours. I liked having someone in the loft with me all the time. I know the situation wasn’t exactly the best, but having you around was so much nicer than the silence.”

Derek squeezed his eyes shut and choked down another sob, one of his hands finding its way into Stiles’ hair. He didn’t want to let Stiles go; he couldn’t.

“Please, Stiles…I love you, so don’t go. Don’t leave me…I can’t lose anyone else.”

“My own mug, huh? You make a compelling offer,” Stiles’ voice, rough as sandpaper and almost indiscernible through the rasp plaguing his throat, but Stiles’ voice all the same startles Derek into standing up straight. He stares down at the frail boy who’s blinking his eyes open like they’re weighed down with lead.

“S-Stiles?” Derek breathes, daring enough to hope that he isn’t hallucinating and that Stiles is actually waking up, is actually going to make it through this. He was just beginning to register the small smile working its way onto Stiles’ face when Deaton and Scott came bursting into the room, Scott having no doubt heard his best friend’s voice.

“How is this possible?” Deaton asked to no one in particular, his voice filled with awe as he rushed over to Stiles’ side. “Your spark…”

“What about it?” Derek asked, finally pulling his gaze away from Stiles and staring at Deaton curiously. The emissary shook his head, mystified and started doing something to Stiles with an odd looking instrument. Muttering to himself for a few moments as he worked, Deaton finally paused and straightened up slowly, staring openly at Stiles who was very slowly trying to sit up, clearly feeling stronger already. Derek reached out to help Stiles sit up, but kept the focus of his attention on the emissary standing across the table.

“Deaton? What is it?” Scott was standing at his boss’ shoulder, looking worried about the silence and expression on the man’s face.

“His spark has come back,” Deaton said, voice soft with wonder. “This is unprecedented…I’ve never heard of this happening. There have been cases but never…never like this and I –” Deaton paused for a moment and then, “I need to make a phone call to a fellow emissary.”

As the man rushed out of the room, Stiles leaned his weight into Derek’s shoulder, drawing the former alpha’s attention back to the human. It was surprising to see how much color had returned to Stiles’ cheeks already. He was still far too pale and far too underweight, but the fact that he looked alive and alert was a vast improvement.

“So,” Stiles began, his voice already holding a bit of a teasing note to it. “You love me, huh?”

* * *

“Oh come _on,_ Derek!” Stiles groaned. “Let it go, okay? I bought you like four new mugs to make up for it. And didn’t you say you wouldn’t be made about it if I lived? Well, I’m alive and you’re complaining so guess who’s a liar? It’s you!”

Derek chuckled with fond amusement, pulling his boyfriend onto his lap where they were cuddled up together on the couch in Derek’s loft. It had been almost three months since Stiles had made his miraculous recovery from near death. The best explanation Deaton could come up with after consulting a fellow emissary was that Derek’s leftover alpha power had somehow pulled Stiles back. Something about how Stiles was somewhat Derek’s emissary, connection that stretched across death, and some other ‘fairy tale mumbo-jumbo’ as Stiles liked to refer to it as.

But Derek knew better.

The events had shaken Stiles, had shaken both of them, and the idea that they could keep each other alive was a large source of reassurance to the still recovering human. Things were better, but they weren’t completely normal yet, and sometimes one or both of them would wake up from nightmares plagued with themes of death, possession, and the dark, cruel laughter of a certain Nogitsune still ringing in their ears. Most of the time they were there to comfort each other, as Stiles now spent more nights in the loft than he did at home – much to the chagrin of a certain Sheriff Stilinski. But there were nights when they woke up alone, leading to two, three, four, five hour phone calls filled with reassurances and hushed conversations of small talk and sweet nothings.

This one such Saturday saw Stiles fresh from Derek’s shower after spending the night, and somehow being dragged into a debate about the lost mug from when Stiles had collapsed and shattered it against the floor. Derek really hadn’t minded, but every time Stiles saw Derek holding one of the mugs that had been bought in apology, the boy would get a little quieter, clearly remembering all of the bad memories associated with it. Yet Derek knew that teasing Stiles about the mug usually lightened the mood.

Humming, Derek nuzzled into the crook of Stiles’ neck and kissed the soft skin there, drawing a small shudder out of his boyfriend. Stiles had gained a significant amount of weight back, looking almost like he had before this whole ordeal, and part of that was largely due to Derek’s vigilance over Stiles’ diet. Most of the time, Derek ended up cooking for the both of them as a way to make sure the boy was eating healthy and getting enough into his stomach to be good without making him sick. It was a long process, but it was something Derek would do over and over again no matter what.

“Derek,” Stiles’ voice pulled Derek free from the rabbit hole of thoughts he had descended into. He hummed again against Stiles’ neck in acknowledgement. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Derek answered softly. “Just thinking about how lucky I am to have you here.”

“You’re a big softie, you know that?”

“You say so, but I can hear your heart beating faster. It’s so easy to get you flustered.”

“I hate you.”

“Love you, too.”

Derek knew they would have to eat breakfast at some point, if only to save him from the persistent grumbling in his own stomach. But Derek resolved to let it wait for the moment as Stiles twisted in Derek’s arms and pulled him in for a bruising kiss that left the former alpha feeling weightless and dizzy with pleasure.

Oh, yeah. Breakfast could wait.


End file.
